Look before you leap...by Amy Mosiman, lemming

So Brad finally succeeded in prying me out of Connecticut but our first stop on the way home almost had him turning the van around to deposit me there permanently. Returning from the simple quest of purchasing my husband a diet Pepsi, I dove into the passenger seat of our van, wide-eyed and breathless. "Why is your face so red," Brad asked, reaching for his beverage. The very beverage that led me down the path of moral destruction and debauchery.

I had innocently entered the gas station, bells tinkling like the gentle laughter of angels. I followed the long line of coolers along the wall to where they then snaked into a narrow corridor. I followed this dimly lit passageway, my eyes endlessly scanning for my spouse's soda. Suddenly, my journey was abruptly halted by an end wall of magazines. No...not Teen Beat. Not Horse and Rider. Not The Ladies Home Journal.  I gasped...stumbled backwards and made to flee, grasping the opposite display case for support. But what was this? Rows upon rows of colorful glass pipes. "Oh no," I mumbled, remembering a fateful trip to New York City where I had mistaken a similar object for a flower vase and had to be gently guided away by my teen-aged daughter.  Enjoying his diet Pepsi all the more, my husband laughed and asked, "Why don't you look where you're going?"

Why don't I look where I'm going, I wondered as, a day later, I drove my truck into the Stuff-mart's cordoned off parking lot which was being re-paved.  I mindlessly followed the vechicle in front of me through a complicated maze of warning tape until I was surprised to find myself solidly in the middle of construction. I remembered my mother's words from long ago, "If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?" Apparently, the answer is yes. Construction capped heads with frowny faces tore down tape and gestured impatiently for me to exit their area. "Why is your face so red," Brad asked when I finally managed to make it safely home. Thoroughly enjoying the story (and counting his blessings that he hadn't been there), my husband laughed and asked, "Why don't you look where you're going?"

"Potato Pancakes"...puh-leeze!

This morning's "potato pancakes." I was
further confused by the presence of lettuce.

"Give me your phone," I whispered to Savannah as my order arrived this morning. "No," she whispered back, cutting into her blueberry pancakes, "I am sick of you mocking all of your meals." I sat silently for a moment and considered my breakfast. I knew that I was doomed for disappointment; this wasn't Perkins, after all, But when potato pancakes appear on a menu, I am drawn to it...a siren's call. My friends, Kathy and Amy, of rich Polish backgrounds steeped in culinary history, are already groaning in response to my inevitable Ode to Perkins. But it's true, none can compare. Yet I remain, ever hopeful.

"I see you have potato pancakes on the menu," I said to my harried waitress, "How are they done? I like them crispy." "Well, we'll just crisp them right up for you," she replied in a balanced tone reserved for the mentally unstable. Alarmed, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come. But no amount of visualization could compare to the reality that was now facing me. "Seriously, I need to take a picture of this," I repeated to Savannah whose annoyance with me was further heightened when I asked for butter. That's right...butter. She threw a cube container pat of butter and her phone at me. Glistening with saturated fat, the "pancakes" were now ready for their close-up. That done, I realized that I was teetering on a potato pancake precipice. My fork crunched one in half. "This could go one of two ways, you know," I told my daughter who was, at the time, pretending to eat alone. "I mean, clearly, they are not what one would call conventional potato pancakes, but maybe they're even better. This moment," I waved my speared half at her as she stared, unblinkingly out the window at the parking lot, "This moment could change everything for me." I took a bite and chewed reflectively. A long moment passed. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Savannah finally tore her gaze away from the parking lot to look at me questioningly, "Well?" "Well," I repeated back, "as you can see by their physical appearance, they are NOT potato pancakes. I would compare them to..." I faltered, at a loss for words, gesturing wildly, my cupped hands making a sliding gesture, "What is that game where you slide disks...it's a puck," I exclaimed, "These are potato pucks!" "So, you're saying you don't like them," Savannah asked. "Not at all," I answered, surprised, breaking another one in half. "My objection relates to truth-in-advertising. This puck is no pancake." And still...Perkins reigns supreme!

Mystic Pizza mishap

"So what are you doing now," Brad asked. The last time he'd asked me that question, I was discreetly marveling at the wonders of simple machines while watching the bridge in Mystic rise to accommodate the passage of a 3-masted sailboat in the most nonchalant manner possible. I was, after all, a child born and raised on the banks of the Erie Canal. I cut my teeth on locks and barges. My lullaby included a mule names Sal. "You live an hour away from the Erie Canal," Savannah said, rudely interrupting my blog, "and the technical complexities of a canal lock still confounds you." So while others endlessly snapped pictures of the bridge, I quelled my impulse to clap my hands in delight and snap some selfie shots myself; electing instead to lean against a streetlamp post and look mildly interested by this disruption to my busy and eventful day. "You do realize there is a stereotype associated with people who lean against streetlamp posts, right," Savannah interjected again. I considered this for a moment. "Are you referring to Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain," I asked, brightening as I realized that the bridge in Mystic would be a wonderful backdrop to a spontaneous dance number. "Yeah, that's right. Gene Kelly," Savannah sighed.

"I'm sitting by a whale," I told Brad. "It's made of cement," I added so as not to confuse him. "And guess what," I whispered, "I'm looking at Mystic Pizza!" There was a long pause on the phone. "Uh, are you hungry for lunch? Why are you looking and not eating?" I rolled my eyes. "Brad...it's Mystic Pizza. You know...the movie where Julia Roberts rockets to stardom in her portrayal of a struggling waitress exploring the invisible but ever-present boundaries determining social and economic classes." "Well...are you going to go in," he asked, obviously not understanding me at all. "I can't go in by myself," I whispered, all shy and inhibited "I don't understand you at all," Brad said before bringing this riveting conversation to a close.

"Guess where we're going to go tonight," I greeted Savannah the minute she got home, herding her back down the stairs and into her car. Bolstered by a buddy, I could now enter Mystic Pizza with confidence. I excitedly ordered a cheese and pepperoni pizza. "Do you have banana peppers," I asked brightly. The waitress frowned, "No, I'm afraid not. But we do have pepperoncini." It was my turn to frown. "What is that?" She convinced me that it was Connecticut's answer to banana peppers. She left to place our order and I turned to Savannah, smiling. Savannah frowned at me. "What?" "Why didn't you order wings," she asked bitterly. "Because we're not in Buffalo," I answered. "You know what I would do," I told her, admiring the movie memorabilia on the walls. "I would put a little TV at each table and be playing Mystic Pizza endlessly." Smirking, Savannah wordlessly pointed to something behind me. I turned to see a big-screen TV playing Mystic Pizza. "Switch places with me," I hissed at my daughter. "Order me wings," she hissed back.

The only thing left to be done was the discreet photograph by the sign. I mapped it out for Savannah. I used a stick to draw a series of figures. "I'm the X," I said, drawing one in front of a square which signified our target. "You're the O." Savannah nodded, hiding a yawn. "I'm going to walk casually down this hill," I continued, drawing a dotted line to represent my journey. "When I get to my destination, I'll turn quickly, flash a smile and you are to simultaneously take the shot so no one is the wiser." I made her repeat the plan back to me before implementation. I descended the hill, reached my target, spun around, smiled and then frowned as I saw that Savannah had gone rogue. She was mid-way down the hill, taking an embarrassing selfie, outing us as the lame tourists that we were. I angrily stoomped back at her...thus capturing this magical moment for all time.

Getting connected (No, not sloshed) at the library

What is the first thing one should do when moving to a new area? Some would say to go to the post office to update your address. Others would advise a trip to the DMV to switch over your state license (but we know how successful that effort would be). But the Mosiman women know better. Even Savannah, with her predilection towards audio books, would agree that, without a doubt, the library is the place to go. Sydney and I visit libraries with reverent enthusiasm. Savannah, however, tends to guard her heart a bit more.

I squealed in delight when I first spotted the Bill Memorial Library during our initial tour of the area where Savannah would be living. "It's beautiful," I gushed, admiring the architecture. Savannah shrugged, "I like our library better," she said. Whoa! I stared at her, astonished. This wasn't the battle of the books! Of course the Cordelia A. Green library towered over every library in the land. It is the ruler upon which every other library is measured. But all libraries are special. Like a church. When you walk into one, you should always feel like you're coming home.

Despite her reticence, I dragged Savannah in so we could introduce ourselves. Naturally, I demanded a tour. "That sign says you have an autographed copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," I observed, "I would like to see it, please." A rolling cart was moved, a bottom shelf revealed the dusty remnants of what should have been one of the library's crowning features. I sighed, Apparently, I had work to do here. I immediately began making plans for an inverted bell jar topiary display with UV filtered accent lighting. Meanwhile, Savannah was making her own discovery. "Mom, check it out," she said, "they have a chest of Captain Morgan's." Not used to living next to a body of water bigger than a puddle, I'm having trouble adjusting to artifacts associated with maritime history. It took me a minute to realize she was referring to the raiding privateer and not the rum. However, that gave me an idea to bring back to Erin at the Cordelia A. Green library. I sighed, scrolling through my phone. "What's the matter," Savannah asked. "I don't have Erin's number," I answered, "I want to suggest installing a chest of Captain Morgan's at our library."

How people spend their Saturdays in Connecticut

"Well, one thing for sure," I observed during our Saturday morning drive, "the Connecticut DMV is very well-signed." Prior to leaving, Savannah and I had cross-checked the thousands of documented evidence necessary for her to receive the mandatory-of-receiving-within-the first-48-hours-of-moving-to-Connecticut license.

"Passport?"
"Check."
"Lease agreement?"
"Check."
"Shoppers Club Card?"
"Check."

Open until 12:30 (On a Saturday! Score 2 for the Connecticut DMV!), we arrived with a comfortable three hour window to complete our business. "We're keeping our expectations low, right," I suggested as we crossed the parking lot. I was fresh from a painful experience at my own hometown DMV where I was told they could no longer accept hand-written receipts for sales of privately-owned cars. I initially left the premises in a quietly gracious manner but a quick ride down the road cleared my head and I stormed back. Miraculously, there is a grace period accompanying this ridiculous rule change but Savannah and I were appalled to hear our original clerk defend her service by saying that she had been told to use "exhaustive measures" to ensure people used the government form instead of the hand-written receipt. It was then and there, that I had the startling revelation that the DMV is NOT a customer-service based organization that exists to make my life better. I know, I know, I was a little late getting to the party, people.

We elbowed our way into the building. Spotting a sign that declared a 150 person occupancy, I immediately began counting in hopes that I could make a well-timed call to clear the premises and get Savannah and I to the front of the line. We took our number, A-60 and waited hopefully. And waited. And waited. "Look! A vending machine," I exclaimed with positive good cheer. "Oh, never mind, it's not Pepsi." I alternated between watching DMV TV...yes, there is such a thing and guessing people's occupations by how they stood. One guy had to have been a sailor...his feet were planted solidly for an hour...no sway, no stretch...solid. I was not solid. I danced around. Discreetly checked out the assortment of ear gauge rings in the room. Readied myself emotionally for when they called out A-60..."BINGO!" and then the "Price is Right" run down the aisles, high fiving or maybe the shocked Miss America "Did you say my name?" look, fanning away threatening tears of disbelief.
"Do you want to play a game," I asked my daughter. "No," she said quickly, fearing what I might use in my round of "I Spy." I resorted to perusing a back issue of Yankee Magazine. Inspired, I am considering stringing a garland of buttons for Christmas and will immediately begin scrounging yardsales and flea markets for something called a bell jar to make inverted topiarys.  AS SOON AS I GET OUT OF THE DMV.

Three hours later, our number was up. Oh...was our number up all right. For one brief moment, I thought we'd made it. We were charming. We provided everything that was asked for. Forms were completed with only a hint of a questioning scowl from our DMV representative. But what is this? We're being sent to the window to get Savannah's license picture taken? Savannah smirked at me. As we sat and waited for our turn, our DMV representative called Savannah's name across the crowded room. I smirked at her as she stomped back to me after discovering one of our thousands of pieces of documented evidence did not meet the standards of the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicles.

By this time, the DMV was closed with an armed-with-pepper-spray guard at the entrance directing patrons to a side corridor exit. "Mom...wait," Savannah said, pausing to check the DMV website on her phone. "Ma'am," another security guard said, rushing toward us (and immediately ticking me off for calling me "Ma'am"), "You can't stand there. Did you already exit the building? You can't come back in once you've exited." I wasn't able to respond under this assault of questions. Was I being accused of breaking into the DMV? Who would want to break into the DMV? Like purgatory, I was caught between realms, not really in or out of the DMV.  Not interested in my answers, he continued peppering me with questions about my exit strategy but never made eye contact with me. I stopped trying to answer and merely danced around, bobbing and weaving until I forced him to look me in the eye. Savannah and I were escorted to another irritated DMV representative who helpfully provided us with a pre-printed list of acceptable documented evidence exactly like the one listed on the helpful DMV website. "See ya next Saturday," I called out to my security guard friend as he watched us successfully exit the building. "Well, that was a complete waste of time," Savannah muttered. "Not at all," I answered. "Now we know what to expect. We'll pack a picnic lunch, bring chairs and play cards." Remembering the vending machine, I added, "Oh...and don't forget the Pepsi." And the right documentation. And your patience. And your will to live.

A mystic Connection

"Where should we go to dinner," Savannah asked, flopping down on her super-heavy, nearly-impossible-to lug-up-to-the-third-floor couch. The only way that couch is leaving her apartment, by the way, is over the railing of her balcony...in a million pieces. I glanced at her in exasperation. "I don't know about you, but I've been working all day," I informed her, "I'm tired." But, good sport that I am, I did some quick research and came up with some possibilities.

My first choice fulfilled my criteria of (a) on-the-water, (b) outdoor seating and (c) lobster bisque. As we buzzed off in Savannah's little car, I felt compelled to confess. "I should probably tell you that reviews of this place are mixed." Savannah sighed but didn't seem all that surprised. We drove along Groton Long Point with my nose squashed up against the window. "Why don't you live here," I exclaimed, staring at the gorgeous houses overlooking the water. We pulled up to my first restaurant choice. CLOSED. Under construction. Savannah sighed but didn't seem all that surprised.

"Well," I said brightly, "our second choice has been rated as Connecticut's Hidden Gem. We drove to Mystic with my nose squashed up against the window. "Why don't you live here," I exclaimed, staring at the gorgeous houses overlooking the water. After parking, we looked for this very well-hidden gem of Connecticut. "Olly-olly-oxen-free," I yelled, giving up. Savannah whipped out her Smartphone and sighed. "It's out-of-business," she told me, not at all surprised.

So we ate at a lovely restaurant not on my list. I excitedly ordered an amped-up root-beer concoction.

The waiter came back a moment later to break the bad news. "What," I exclaimed, completely shocked, "How does one run out of amped-up root-beer?" So this third choice (a) was no where near the water, (b) seated me in the back with a distant view of a window, and (c) didn't have lobster bisque (or amped-up root beer). "How do you like your tuna," I asked Savannah. She smiled at me and answered, "Surprisingly good."

Unable to break the connection in Connecticut

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who left home and found herself in a strange apartment complex near a military installation. She spent days, holed up in her new home, peeking out the window, waiting for her husband to come home. "Get a job," he would growl, "get out of the house."

Approximately two decades later, there was a young girl who left home and found herself in a strange apartment complex near a military installation. She spent her days working at her new job only to return home to find her mother holed up, peeking out the window, waiting for her. "Go home to Dad," she would growl to her mother, "get out of my house."

Such was the response when I shared my happy news that I planned to spend an additional week with Savannah in Connecticut. You would not believe the flight deals Brad and Savannah are finding for me! I really feel torn in this tug-of-war battle as Brad pulls the rope on his end and Savannah's grip slips a bit on her's. I know some of you prefer to picture the stubborn donkey analogy with the donkey's haunches dug deep into the ground; Brad tugging at the halter while Savannah pushes the resistant rear. I've already been told that I may need more than a solid kick in the a** to dislodge me from Connecticut. Pictures of Chlo, pining for me are beginning to pepper my phone.

I don't think you understand. Savannah needs me. I figured out how to turn on her lamp yesterday, saving her what I'm sure would have been countless, worrisome hours of effort on her part with no supporting audience. My presence was instrumental in getting her cable turned on. Facing my fear of abnormally large seagulls head-on, I took out the garbage. I made her hot dog soup. I pointed out that we needed powdered sugar. I crookedly applied a decorative quote to her bedroom wall. She needs me.

I am on a constant look-out for potential friends. I ruled out the argumentative couple beneath us although I didn't rule out their entertainment value...I even turned off La Usurpadora in favor of the drama that lurked below the surface. I did provide a box on moving day and helped the female protagonist leave this "h***-hole." How I wished for a suitable musical underscore at that moment.

 "Are you originally from Connecticut," I ask people in a pleasantly inquisitive way while Savannah looks for somewhere to hide. "Can you please explain the state flag to me," is my follow up question. By the way, no one, so far, has been able to explain the Connecticut flag to me except Wiki-pedia. "Stop asking that," Savannah stormed across the parking lot, "you're making people feel stupid." "They should feel stupid," I answer, "a person should be able to explain why there are grapes on their flag when there are no discernible grapes in their state." "Can you explain the New York flag," she shouted, making a scene (and, let's be frank here, embarrassing me in public). "Well...yes, I can," I stated, thrilled with this opportunity to hold a lengthy discourse on my noble, seeped with history and symbolism, and not-at-all-confusing state flag.

I would like to say this story ends happily ever after but I was out of breath from chasing Savannah's car as she attempted to abandon me in the Stuff-mart parking lot. She eventually had to slow down to let me in. After-all...she needs me.

Dis-Connected in Connecticut

 For weeks following her RIT graduation, Savannah was wrestling with three possible career opportunities: DC, Connecticut and New York. New York! I screamed every day in my head while verbally, I would smile at my daughter and say complacently, "Whatever you think." So now, here I was, seven hours away from home...in Connecticut, moving my baby into her new apartment.

"Rule Number One," Brad said, as we began the process of moving a small sleeper sofa up three narrow flights of stairs to Rapunzel's tower, "is you cannot yell at me for yelling at you." Why would I agree to such a ridiculous rule, I wondered one flight later with one hand trapped in the sleeper sofa metal mechanism and the other crunched in the railing. Thankfully, the sofa and the marriage arrived, more or less intact, to the third floor.

The next obstacle was obtaining power to the apartment. Apparently, one must arrive at the electric company's place of business with a copy of the signed lease, in hand, to achieve that goal. Difficult to do when the place of business isn't open on week-ends. We squinted at each other in the dimming light of Savannah's apartment. "Well, it's nothing a few D-batteries won't fix," Brad said cheerfully and off we went to Stuff-Mart. Having ignored Savannah's pointed observations that Grandma and Grandpa were the only ones to officially recognize her auspicious graduation from RIT (She even framed their card...see "Way to go, Dumbo!"), I had been waiting for this moment to (a) Commemorate her achievement and (b) Make her feel guilty for all the bad things she'd been saying about me behind my back right to my face. Unfortunately, I hadn't communicated my devious plan to my husband and I watched in horror as, while they were inspecting the televisions, Brad and Savannah deviated to one of the smallest models. I got his attention and told him that I'd hoped we'd buy her the TV as a gift...a nicer TV. He responded that he wanted to get her a grill for her balcony...a nice grill. As usual, I acquiesced without a word.

With a cart full of necessities, (a year's-worth of toilet paper, a useless lamp, a useless TV, bowls, silverware, hangers, socks, lanterns, and yes...D-batteries) we headed to check-out. I watched as, before Savannah could hand her money to the cashier, my husband paid for these purchases. I walked wordlessly away and cried by the claw machine.

Back at the apartment, I held the lantern aloft as father and daughter assembled the television that
was, at this moment, only a glorified knick-knack. That done, I put on a shadow puppet display of epic proportions.

Savannah went back and bought her own grill the next day so we knew she could at least heat up a hot dog given both our absence and the absence of power. It was time to leave. This won't be so bad, I thought to myself as I prepared to hug her good-bye. She'll be home on Friday for the Fourth of July. But I could feel the weight on my chest and started to shake. Then Brad had to go over and hug his daughter and I heard him tell her how proud we were of her. Jerk! I turned around and tripped down two flights of stairs, tears streaming down my face. So much for saying good-bye. I cried all the way from Connecticut to Albany.

Connecting the DOTs to Connecticut: My lame way of incorporating the Department of Transportation into this blog post

Armed with pertinent knowledge, I peppered Savannah with fun facts about her new state as we made the seven hour journey to Connecticut. "Well, they weren't very imaginative about their state bird," I observed, noting that a Connecticut robin didn't look all that different from a New York robin. I later realized that my vote would have been for the Connecticut seagull that is similar in size and temperament to a velociraptor. Savannah's seagull-zilla has taken up permanent residence in the nearby dumpster. Apartment occupants must pay homage and provide daily sacrifices to the dumpster god to avoid a cataclysmic avalanche that would rain down upon their heads and cars.

In between fun facts, I stared out the car window and reflectively thought about the long journey that led to this long journey. Strawberry picking, blueberry picking, garlic picking, fish factory in Alaska, set-net crew in the Pacific, pumping gas...then beginning work in her "field" (that did NOT include strawberries, blueberries or garlic). She's always worked. And she's always worked hard. I sat through a conversation recently where a friend commented on how she enjoyed spending time with her (almost) adult child and I was surprised as all the air was immediately sucked from my chest as I glanced at Savannah who, for the last month, has had one of those bomb-detonator clock clouds following her around. And all I could hear on that darn seven hour car ride was ticking...ticking...ticking. All Savannah could hear were fun facts about Connecticut:

•  "Ooooo...the state animal is the sperm whale!"
•  "Connecticut is also known as the Nutmeg State!"
•  "Pez Candy is manufactured in Connecticut." 
• "Lollipops were first made in this state." 

She finally snapped. "Mom! Why are you looking all this stuff up?" I explained, "I don't want you to look like an ignorant doofus...you should know about the state you're living in. Like, for instance, that to be considered a true pickle in Connecticut, it must be able to bounce. This is important stuff. How else will you know that the purchase of Silly String is illegal here? I want you to look intelligent at parties AND to stay out of jail." She nodded and then turned up the radio while I shouted, "Your state's name is derived from the Native people's word, Quinnehtukqut, meaning beside the long tidal river."

We finally arrived and Savannah escaped the confines of her car to walk over to Brad, who had been manning the rental truck. "What are you humming," Savannah asked her father. "It's Yankee Doodle. That's the state song of Connecticut."